A Narratively Useful Fragment
by kerithwyn
Summary: "For reasons which were rapidly becoming clear, aliens had kidnapped Philip Broyles." [Gen]


Fandom: Fringe, Imperial Radch

Characters: Phillip Broyles, Anaander Mianaai

Summary: "For reasons which were rapidly becoming clear, aliens had kidnapped Philip Broyles."

Notes: Dear Sprocket: Your prompt ate my brain. Summary and inspiration from Sprocket's comments.

"Or is anyone's identity a matter of fragments held together by convenient or useful narrative, that in ordinary circumstances never reveals itself as a fiction? Or is it really a fiction?"

― Ancillary Justice, Ann Leckie

* * *

"We are having," one alien announced, "a disagreement."

The other alien made a slight, indecipherable gesture. "A slight difference of opinion."

"When you cannot even agree on the fact of the argument," the first began with withering disdain, and Phillip Broyles used their momentary distraction to get his bearings.

It turned out that the common narratives of alien abductions, if anything so ridiculous could be considered "common," were remarkably accurate. The white light; the sense of being levitated; the complete inability to move, or speak, or resist in any way. He'd been entirely conscious throughout the entire experience, from his sudden paralysis while he'd been working in his home office to his arrival here, in a stark room with a bare floor, dull walls, and uncomfortable-looking chairs around a central table. Conference rooms, it seemed, were recognizable the universe over. If nothing else, Phillip thought with grim acknowledgment, he could be grateful for the fact that it wasn't a medical examination room.

But the space, and even the abduction, wasn't the most alarming part of this incident. It was the fact that the two aliens standing in front of him were wearing his face.

Their facial features were identical to his, but other details varied. One of them had close-cropped gray hair; the other's long dark hair had been woven into a complicated braid. They both wore coats decorated with jeweled pins over pants, gloves, and practical boots. They might nearly have passed for human on a busy cosmopolitan street. But while their faces were familiar, there was an odd...smoothness to their features Philip couldn't identify.

They clearly weren't speaking English, but he heard his native language perfectly replicated down to the idioms. They hadn't dropped a Babel fish into his ear or given him any kind of device, so the translation must have been occurring on their side. Nina would have grilled them mercilessly about the technology. He had other concerns.

And he wouldn't get any answers standing here passively. "Excuse me," he said, and two sets of identical eyes met his. Disconcerting. "Why am I here?"

One alien snorted; the other smiled. "Of course. Your ignorance, however unplanned, presents a unique opportunity. I— we— are Anaander Mianaai. And so are you."

The other waved an elegant glove-covered hand. Phillip's hands had never been so graceful. "Aside from you, we are all clones that share a united consciousness. —Formerly united," that one amended before the other could interrupt. "You were left on that backwater world as a...backup."

"A backup clone," Phillip repeated through numb lips, thinking furiously.

He was too distracted to distinguish which one spoke next. "There is a dispute between ourselves. We cannot break the stalemate, and we cannot allow the divergence to remain. Therefore you, Phillip Broyles, must choose which is the most just, proper, and beneficial course. We can and will accept our own judgment, because no one else can decide."

He'd been abducted by aliens who claimed he was one of them, and they wanted him to mediate a dispute between them.

Well, then. Either they were lying, or they were telling the truth.

The lie might be based on some alien logic that determined he would be more comfortable seeing his own face than whatever they truly looked like. An erroneous assumption. But unless this was some unfathomable alien game, he couldn't see any purpose behind such a deception.

The truth as they knew it...could still have any number of interpretations. Given the facts of his life—both socially and biologically, since he'd married and had children—he was human by any definition he cared to apply. Working with Fringe Division had significantly broadened that definition to include men and women with extraordinary abilities, whether innate or imposed. He wasn't interested in determining whether aliens with similar biology were "human" by any strict classification; these aliens believed he was one of them, and that was clearly sufficient from their point of view.

As for the assertion that he was a clone, he would need more proof than their word. Identical features could be a matter of repeating expression among a set number of universal genes. But irrefutable proof wouldn't alter his sense of self; even by the strictest definition, a clone was still a discrete entity. The classified reports from Projects Leda and Castor made that unquestionably clear.

 _Androgynous,_ he realized with a start, that was the strange difference in their features. The way they moved included both masculine and feminine gender markers. That was...perplexing. For perhaps the first and only time Phillip was glad for the required HR seminars, which had recently expanded to include discussion of nonbinary gender expressions. He couldn't claim he understood fully, but at least he had some basis for context.

And now he had considerably more context for the trials Olivia Dunham had faced, as well. If this was what she'd felt like, learning the truth about her past... He couldn't claim to have gained new respect for her, because it would be impossible to improve on an absolute. But he could rise to meet her example.

The setting and the circumstance was unbelievable. But the situation, a call for mediation, was all too familiar. Everything else aside, he hadn't gotten to where he was without knowing how to hear all sides of an argument and make a determination. Consideration of his origins would have to wait. "All right," Phillip said, drawing himself up. "And in return for my unbiased judgment, you will return me to my home, unharmed."

The two Mianaais looked shocked. "Yes, of course," one said. "We are civilized."

The word sounded something like "radchai" and seemed to bear particular weight, but Phillip wasn't interested in being sidetracked by semantics.

But he did spare one moment for a mental bookmark: When he returned, he was resolved to assign some open-minded agent to unearth the redacted portions of the X-Files. All those far-fetched reports about abductions and alien clones had suddenly become considerably more plausible.


End file.
